Joy Ride

I rub a hand across the back of my neck. “I was thinking about the Mustang Fastback.”


She sighs. “The Mustang. The stupid Mustang. Can we move on? I messed up the color. You got pissed that I didn’t listen. I got upset. You didn’t promote me. I got mad and assumed it was because I was a woman. We fought. I lost my temper and called you names. You fired me. Here we are.”

I nod, agreeing with the basic facts. “Yes, that’s all true. But I don’t think I was fair to you.”

She blinks, as if I’ve just said I want to snowshoe naked in Central Park tonight. Maybe my comment is that unusual. “What do you mean?”

I swallow. My throat is dry. I grab the water glass the bartender brought to me. “This thing,” I say, pointing from her to me.

“Yeah?” she asks cautiously.

“I felt it long before the Challenger. Long before the car show. I felt it the second I met you.”

The look in her eyes tells me it is stranger than snowshoeing in the park. I’ve just said I want to cartwheel down Fifth Avenue.

“You did?” she asks, as if she’s testing out speech for the first time.

“I was attracted to you literally in an instant. It never stopped. It never went away.”

“You never let on when we worked together.”

“Good,” I say, somewhat relieved. “I wanted to do the right thing and be your mentor. I wanted to teach you everything I knew and help you become the best.”

“You did teach me. You were incredible.”

“And so were you. But what I’m trying to say is it became difficult near the end, and that’s not fair to you. I wanted you so much, and I didn’t realize this at the time, but when I gave you the assignment on the Mustang, I should have made sure I helped you more. I should have made sure it was done properly. I should have checked in with you and double-checked that you’d taken the codes down properly and that we were on the same page. Instead, I fucking left because it was so hard being near you. I didn’t even call while I was out of town to check on the work.”

“Max,” she says softly, her hand wrapping around my arm, “I made a mistake. I thought you said one thing when you said another. Besides, I think lime gold is ugly. I couldn’t imagine he wanted lime gold, so in my mind I figured it was champagne gold, and that’s what I painted the car. And that’s a big mistake because it takes a ton of work to strip it down and do it over.”

I sigh. “I should have been more involved. I should have made sure it was all clear. Instead, I barked instructions, and I just left. All I could think about was escaping the way I felt for you.”

She shakes her head. “I was hotheaded. I was stubborn. I was young. I was so damn sure that was what the client wanted. Don’t blame yourself.” Then she winks. “Entirely.”

I shake my head and grip her shoulders. “Don’t you get it? I take my time with the guys. I’m patient. I teach them. I make sure they know what they’re doing. I tried so fucking hard to do that with you, but the day I gave you the job I was looking at you in your jeans and your blue work shirt, and all I could think was how much I wanted you, and I had to get away from you.”

She tries to rein in a laugh.

“Why are you laughing at me? I don’t want to treat you any differently. You’re supposed to hate me. You’re supposed to hate me because you want to be respected. You don’t want to be treated differently, and I did treat you differently that time. And then I came back to town, and I was pissed.”

She laughs even more, and it’s the same sound as the other night. That sound like bells. It fucking hooks into me. It’s doing something to me. Everything about her is like a charm, from the way she dissects magic acts, to worshipping my tub, to needling me, to letting me into her warm blanket cocoon.

“I’m laughing because, fine, maybe you could have checked in and maybe you could have been a better teacher at times, but . . . C’mon. We’re not talking sexual harassment here. You gave me an assignment, and I completely botched it. And it cost you time and money. And then I lost my cool. Do you not remember the drama queen I was?” she asks, tapping her chest. No, she’s stabbing it. “I parked my hands on my hips and called you a cruel bastard. You want to talk about inappropriate behavior? I engaged in it, too.”

The knot of tension in me loosens. “You were kind of hotheaded and stubborn,” I say under my breath.

“And you were kind of a cruel bastard,” she says, playfully.

“So we were both kind of jerks?”

She laughs. “Total jerks. I think it’s safe to say, looking back, that we both could have handled our little work tiff differently. But it’s behind us. Okay? Let’s keep it there.”

“Sounds like a fair deal.”

She gives me a coy look. “But you were kind of a dick,” she says playfully. “And now I know why.” She leans closer and taps her fingers against my chest. “Because you wanted me.” She says it like a taunt, a little song you sing to egg someone on.

“I did. I wanted you then. I wanted you when I saw you at the show. And I want you now.”

“You wanted me then. You still want me now,” she says, and she’s singing again.

“Is this a new bubble-gum pop song?”

“Yes. I’m going to commission it to Belinda, and we’ll make gobs of money off it.” She shakes her hips and croons. “He wanted me then. He still wants me now.”

I roll my eyes, but I let her give it to me. Because I deserve it, and because she’s not mad. Because she’s singing a forgiveness tune.

“So we can move past the Mustang?”

Her lips curve up. “We already have. We’re past the Mustang. We’re onto the Lambo. Why don’t we talk about what car we’re driving to Milford tomorrow? That’s the car we should focus on.”

I lean against the counter as the bartender brings our drinks. I toss a twenty on the black metal and thank him. “I’ve got a black sports car I built myself—”

She cuts me off. “I would hope you built it yourself. You’re not impressing this car girl unless I know these hands made it from the ground up.” She reaches for my hand and slides her fingers through mine.

“And I have a Triumph TR6. Don’t tell the other cars, but the Triumph is my favorite, even though I didn’t build it myself. I added safety features and rebuilt the important parts, though, as in new electrical.”

“So it doesn’t blow up?”

I laugh, loving that she knows her cars. “I thought that would be a good feature—blow-up resistant. Plus, it has a hot new paint job.”

Her jaw drops, and she fans herself. “Color? What color?” She sounds as if she’s hyperventilating.

I bring my mouth to her ear and whisper as if I’m telling her what I want to do to her when I take her home. “It’s electric blue.”

She moans. It’s filthy and beautiful, and I want to hear that sound twenty more times tonight. Then tomorrow. Then the next night.